


Long Island Iced Tea

by Oienel



Category: Korean Actor RPF, Korean Drama
Genre: All roads lead to sex, Alternate Universe, Basically, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 03:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9301766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oienel/pseuds/Oienel
Summary: To battle boredom, message the hero.





	

Late night. You love them. Nearly just as much as pulling all nighters.

_Right._

You love seeing how office slowly gets deserted, how patrons from glass offices put their files into their briefcases, how they put on their jackets, how the turn off the light, and they walk to the elevators, to go to the bar on the next side of the street, where they order a Long Island Iced Tea, down it in 15 minutes (tops), they get pleasantly tipsy, and they are ready to go home to their wives and their children, to pass out in front of the TV, just to wake up in the morning and go back to work.

Oh, the joys of corporate job.

And then again, you’d love to be in their place, walking out of the building before janitors start to clean up.

But here you are, still drowning in the papers, being dumped with them when your supervisor decided it’s time to go and order his Long Island Iced Tea, but he still needed those briefs do be done, and those contracts over there to be read over, and generally everything is supposed to be ready for yesterday.

You save the last of the briefs, and you can push away the papers you needed for that. You take a sip of your long-forgotten (and sadly cold) coffee, and you turn your attention to another stack of papers, your eyes sliding across the clock.

Few minutes shy of 10PM.

You lose all your will, just as if you were back in college trying to study for the finals. You remember how it felt, opening a book, with an intent, with a will, with a clear goal, to close it after unsuccessful tries to sit down and get it done.

You slide down in your chair, looking around. You are not even in your cubicle, you are in the conference room 12, because you couldn’t fit in your cubicle with all of the papers. You got most of the stuff done, reading shouldn’t take long. If you push it you could still be home minutes after midnight.

But just as if you had an exam tomorrow, you just can’t force yourself to do that.

Out of boredom (and an unconditional reflex) you check your phone, but there are no missing calls nor messages, facebook is boring as well, but you catch yourself scrolling down minutes later.

You groan and put it down, and you bring the first contract closer, and you start to read.

Few pages later you realize that you are no longer paying attention, and your hand is reaching to your phone every few seconds, lighting up the screen, checking the hour, or even unlocking it to hover over fb icon.

And you give up, and you open facebook’s app once again, and the first person you see makes you smile.

Everybody has this one person. This one guy that you sometimes call up, because he is always up for something, the one you can fuck into next week and leave in the middle of the night, without any note, not scared that this could mean the end of an relationship, because there is no relationship there to be broken.

You don’t think much, you pick up the phone, you scroll down your contact list, you find the right name and you open new message.

You don’t even have to think about, your fingers do the work for you.

 _I am thinking about you…_ Without hesitation you hit send. You change the phone settings from to silent to vibrate, and finally you focus on your job, with this pleasant tingling just under your skin. Answer comes in about 3 minutes. You are surprised, and yet at the same time you are not. It’s one of those guys always out and partying, so he should not even get your message until tomorrow, but there you are.

_Is that so?_

_I am thinking about you, next to me. On top of me. Inside me._

Next three minutes you spend waiting for an answer. It’s not the first time you’ve done this, and if he answered the first one, he should be sitting with his phone in his hands waiting for you to write. And now he is silent?

You take the phone in your hands.

_Your hand in fisted in my hair, the other one on my hip, as you’d take me from behind, my hands digging into the table in this fucking conference room 12._

You send it, and wait again, desperately trying to focus on the contract. But three minutes come and go, and the person on the other end of the line is still silent.

_I also wouldn’t mind pushing you into one of those black leather swivel chairs and riding you into horizon._

Null. Nada. Nothing happens. You know he is over there, reading, which guy wouldn’t, _for fuck’s sake_. Not every day girl goes out like that, initiating sexting.

And he has the audacity not to answer you.

During next 15 minutes you find yourself picking your phone and writing him a dignified (and pissed off) message, but you always put it down, deciding to keep the last shred of your pride.

And then comes a message. You almost weren’t expecting it, so the vibration startles you.

_Still at work? Conference room 12?_

You look at your phone incredulous. It sounds like he was planning to come, but you don’t recall telling him where you work exactly.

_Yes, conference room 12, where the table is sturdy enough to hold us both._

This time he answers immediately.

_And yet your nails would leave marks in the wood, because you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. And you’d be reminded of it every time you had a meeting in conference room 12._

You subconsciously run your hand across the wooden surface, realizing, that in fact,you could leave little crescents in it. Not because your nails are so strong, but because the wood is quite soft.

And there comes another message.

_Or maybe I would take you out to the elevators, and fuck you against mirror, so you can watch yourself come undone._

You are aroused, but at the same time, _come undone_? A fuckboy using this kind of language?

_Or maybe we would go down on the floor, your nails marking my back, my arms, my ass, fighting me, but I would be taking you, listening to your moans._

_Or maybe I would eat you out, with your thighs shaking and tears streaming down your face. You’d love every second of it._

You laugh, of course you _would_. But now the messages just keep coming.

_Or maybe you would be on your knees, between my spread legs, with my cock down your throat._

Yes, that sounds more like the guy you know.

You check the hour and you realize that there is no way you are getting home few minutes after midnight. You look around remembering that you haven’t exactly focused on your work, and as pleasurable as sexting is, you need to focus on your assignment.

You once again bring the contract closer to you and you start reading, just like a student that realizes that they can’t procrastinate studying anymore.

But your phone is still vibrating. Like an alarm in the morning, that you snoozed one time too many. And just like with your alarm in the morning you are promptly ignoring it.

You are in the middle of your reading, when you notice that the motion sensors where set off in the elevators area, lightning it up. You look up, just in time to see the lights being turned on in the central area, where your cubicle is.

The person setting them off is one of the owners of glass office. Tall, broad shoulders, impeccable manners, flawless suits. You’ve worked for him once or twice. Research and contract writing. Easy job, really, but usually quite tedious. That is why senior workers usually seconded their work to workers with less-seniority. Workers just like you.

But you did enjoy being able to move from your cubicle to walk across the floor and go into his office to give him your work. You felt a little bit more important than usual, your pencil skirt hugging your hips and your high heels clicking on the panels. And you did get to see his perfectly fitted suit, snuggling his muscles.

You absent-mindedly follow him with your eyes, idly wondering what made him come back to work at this hour. Emergency with a client? Forgotten keys? Same kind of conspiracy to overthrow other patrons?

He has a briefcase in his hand, and he is focused on his phone, his thumb moving lively, probably writing a message.

On the other hand your phone is still vibrating, so you look down for a second to check it, and you shake your head seeing that he managed to leave you nine more messages, just when another one arrives.

Doors to the conference room opens, and you look up, surprised, and you watch in stunned silence how Senior Partner, Gong Jicheol, enters the room, pulls back the chair across from you, sets his briefcase on the table along with his phone (face down), and sits down opening his jacket, allowing you to see his vest underneath.

He laces his fingers on the table, in very business-like manner, and looks you square in the face.

“Well?”

You are even more lost now, that he is sitting in front of you expecting something. You try to remember whether he assigned you something to do, but you don’t recall anything like that happening.

Maybe one of the contracts is for him?

“Oh, sorry, are you waiting for contracts, sir? I didn’t know that they are needed today, tell me, please, which one do you need and it will be ready in ten minutes, tops.”

One of his eyebrows go up, lazily, and he blinks slowly, his left eye closing a millisecond before the right one. You don’t even know why you noticed that.

“I gather you haven’t read messages.” He says, and you furrow your eyebrows, once again trying to remember getting any messages from him. So you look up at him to ask for more details, but you notice that even though his fingers are laced his forefinger is pointing at your phone, so you obediently take it.

There are only messages from your usual fuck, with the last one being:

_I will let you choose your own demise._

That’s when panic hits you, the phrasing is too elegant for the guy you’ve been fucking with, and sheer fear overflows your synapses, and you check the person you’ve been messaging to.

You can feel yourself growing cold, when you realize that you’ve chosen the wrong name, instead of Gong Jinhyun, you’ve chosen Gong Jicheol – it was probably the slip of your finger, but still _you messaged one of your superiors instead of your usual fuckboy._

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, I am so so sorry, sir, I slipped my fingers when choosing contact from my list, I didn’t want to harass you.” You stutter out, shaken, and so embarrassed, that you can’t really look at him.

“Oh.” It’s a soft sound, and you hear his chair creaking as he shifts in his seat. “Boyfriend I guess?”

“What–? Oh, no, just this guy I–“ you stop yourself, realizing that if you don’t do that you’ll be babbling. And it’s not like you want to share the detail of your sex life with senior partner.

“Friends with benefits?” You finally look at him, and he looks relaxed. But again his job is to look relaxed.

You nod slowly, observing him intently, and he seems to be doing the same. He finally exhales and moves back in his chair.

“What I am going to say now, will tip on the other side of the sexual harassment, and I am apologizing for that, but I find it justified since you were the first one to cross this line, even if unknowingly. But if you feel uncomfortable, one word, two letters, and I am out of the doors, and we will never go back to this again.” You try to stop your eyes from growing bigger, but you can feel that your face is showing how lost you are in this moment. “I am really sorry, but I feel like this is the best chance I will get to ask. Care to answer to my last message?”

He is looking at you, quite intently, and one thought comes across your clouded mind – he came back here, because he thought that you did in fact offered your _company_ to him.

And hell if he is not the man you’d like to accompany.

Fucking Jinhyun or fucking Jicheol?

As questions go, this one is easy.

“Since you’ve come all the way back, I guess it’s only fair you were allowed to chose.” You say, wondering whether he would hear the lack of honorifics. His left eyebrow jumps up, clearly without his thought, but he schools his face a second later.

“I guess that’s fair.” He agrees, expression still guarded. He observes you for a second longer, and then his eyes fall to his watch, but instead of checking the hour he takes it off and places on his briefcase. Next, he stands up, and you lift your chin, both to keep looking at him and to challenge him.

He takes his jacket off, and folds it over the chair’s backrest. He has white, crisp shirt still on, grey vest and plain tie. He doesn’t spare you a glance and just focuses on opening his vest. It’s meticulous, you have to admit, and somehow really hot.

Vest is off, and it lands on top of the jacket. Then he starts rolling his sleeves up, and you are gone. His arms are tanned, and you can clearly see his extensors working, and the clear line between them on his forearms.

_God._

As a last straw – he uses his forefinger to work his tie off his neck. You allow yourself to observe him until his finger reaches his solar plexus, and you decide that it’s too much. You can feel the pleasant tingling of your skin, and your underwear is protecting your skirt from getting stained.

So you stand up, as well, trying to look as casual as Gong Jicheol is. You gather papers laying on the table, making sure to organize them, so you won’t have problems with deciphering what is what later. You catch tie landing on the vest in the corner of your eye, and then you are grabbed and pushed against conference’s room window.

It’s one of those enormous office’s window – glass wall, giving a great view on the city. The glass is cold even through your blouse, and his breath tickles the skin of your scalp. You are wearing high heels and yet you are still smaller than he is.

Not that you are complaining.

Your hands are pinned against the window, hairs on your forearms raising, both from cold and anticipation, and with every inhale your nostrils are invaded by his scent – lingering smell of soap, dry cleaners and skin – in the end he is not the freshest, and neither are you.

His chest is visibly moving, his breathing more pronounced than usual, signaling his own anticipation. It feels like eternity before something more intimate happen, his lips on your temple, slowly trailing down, to open on your jaw to allow his teeth scratch your skin.

You moan.

It’s voluptuous.

He doesn’t hurry, his upper teeth marking his way from your ear to your chin. You exhale audibly, and you open eyes, which you don’t remember closing. You see side of his neck, stark contrast between white collar and his darker skin, and then his teeth close on your lower lip, pulling it playfully.

You whisper, knees bucking, but you don’t fight the restrains he have you in. You pull your leg to the side, kicking the heel off, and you drag it up, on his hip, so your heel can pull him closer. Thanks to that your skirt rides up, uncomfortably, too tight for the position you are in.

You feel the his belt’s buckle on your lower abdomen, and you relish his body pressing into your crotch, your skirt rolled obscenely on your hips. One of his hands come down and he sinks his fingers into your flesh, holding your leg up, bruising your thigh. This means one of your own arms is left to do whatever you please, and you please throwing it around his shoulder, fingers settling on his nape, and you use this leverage to bring yourself forward, so you can kiss him.

He tastes like long island iced tea, and it makes you snort.

_How predictable._

Maybe that’s the sound that makes him pull you back, and around. You stumble on your one heel, and you kick it off as well, your hands finding the table to stabilize you. You can feel him staring at you, shiver going up your spine, and you take of your blouse, grateful for presentable bra.

Low, needy sound reverberates in the room and you stretch your arms, finger curling into his no-longer pressed shirt, and he comes to you, more than willingly.

You have no mind left to open his shirt, you are in a need incused haze, and he is distracting you with his lips and teeth on your neck and shoulder, and his hands mapping the expanse of your back and torso, touch delicate, but demanding. In this circumstance you can’t focus, you _really_ can’t, so you just drag his shirt out of his suit pants, and splay fingers on his back, skin hot.

You can hear him breathing, you can hear those minute moans lodged between inhales, and your vision goes blurry, and your pelvic muscles cramp, your head coming to the side to rest on top of his head. His little moans make him appear younger and way older at the same time, but the result most obvious is your spiking arousal

Your nails dig into his flesh, and he _growls_ , and you can feel wetness in the corners of your eyes, and you cannot wait anymore, your finger drag across his skin, on his torso, and you push his shirt up, rolling it at the level of his collarbones and you just push forward, until you can lick the line up his body, beginning at his solar plexus.

He lets you, his hands stilling on your neck, but when you bite the skin above the nipple, his arms fall to your hips and he helps you on the table, and goes on his knees, without even pausing, his fingers still splayed on your hips. You push the stack of your papers away, when you feel the first touch of hot breath on the inside of your knee, damping your pantyhose, and definitely wetting your underwear.

It’s so tender, and yet so lewd, how he drags his teeth up your thigh, his hair brushing your legs. But then his lips are on your crotch, breath hot even through the double layer, and you keen, hands twisting into his hair, and suddenly you are hyperaware, that you are sitting on the table in conference room 12, with Gong Jicheol kneeling between your legs, office deserted except for you two… But if someone were to come back, just like the man between your thighs, you would be on full display.

You don’t know whether he sensed your sudden realization, or grew tired of waiting, but his fingers hooked into your pantyhose and underwear and he started dragging them down, his tongue splaying flat on your labia, as soon as he freed them. It leaves you breathless, stomach hollowed, as you clench your hands, still twisted into his hair, and your toes curl, and you pull back.

When you underwear clears your feet, he stands up, lips finding yours immediately, and you can smell your arousal on him. You hold him close and he pushes you until your back touches the table, wood cooling your skin.

After that it’s all hazed.

He stretches over you to fish condom out of his briefcase, and you buck under him, hips gyrating, legs trying to close as you seek your pleasure. It takes him longer than it should to put the condom on, because you are not helping at all, hands crabbing, nails scratching, lips demanding kiss after kiss.

But the moment he finally drives into you, your hips come off the table, your legs instinctively curling up, closing on his sides, and you trash on the wood, with every slide home, thrust long and hard, nearly punishing, with his body so closely covering your that with every push you can feel him barely brushing over your covered nipples.

You roll your hips, you dig your nails into his skin, into the wood, you search for purchase so you can use it as a leverage to push against him, you slide on the furniture, skin burning, and your bra rolling uncomfortably. His hair is matted to his forehead, but with every hard thrust he sends drops of sweat flying, and even though he is short for breath, and he is mouthing at your neck, hands caressing your sides, or bruising the skin.

He is breathing hard and loudly, moan few and far between, but his eyes are open wide, and you know that he is watching you, maybe storing the image for later, and it makes you feel so beautiful and wanted, that you may be squirming a little more than you really need to.

Your muscles are cramping, and Jicheol lunges forward to kiss you, one of his hands bringing your leg up and pressing it against the table. You keen, loudly, bashfully even, and you chest hollows, and you can’t catch your breath, because he is still fucking you, and he is still kissing you, breathing into your mouth, and you can only do the same, not enough air left in your lungs, and not enough time between the kisses to inhale, but you can’t bother, head going light.

You shouldn’t be surprised, but your orgasm comes like a lighting. It’s so unexpected that you choke on your moan, falling silent, your chest coming off the table, pushing against him, your muscles spasming, and his teeth latch on your neck, biting down, sending a wave of pain-turning-pleasure through your system, and his thrust grow faster, lacking their previous strength and length, but the intensity, makes you loll your head on the wood, no strength whatsoever to fight the satisfaction surging through your veins.

You didn’t moan, but he sure does. It’s a loud, vibrating sound, that settles in your gut and mind, and refuses to leave, even when he rides through his orgasm, and immediately pulls out.

You don’t care, laying on the table spent and sated. You don’t know how long you just bask in the feeling of a job well done, but when you feel fabrics on your feet, you look up, to see Senior Partner already in his powersuit, watch on, vest and jacket concealing the ceases on his shirt – only wet hair showing the workout he got through.

You sit up, disregarding the fact that he was trying to help you dress yourself, and you use his neatly pressed lapels to drag him back up, so you can kiss him.

He goes right into it, tongue licking into your mouth, not allowing you to try to lead it.

  _Late nights._

You love them.


End file.
